Priced to Move

by Ginny Aiken

  Max glances toward the van. “Do we ask the driver, the translator, or the armed goon?”

  “Well, they’re all armed. I don’t think any one of them would get queasy about drawing his gun. But I’m sure the secret service one knows we’re here to check out all parts of their ruby industry, and to pick up product for the network.”

  The three of us argue mildly over which one will go ask.

  Can you believe they both think I’m the most likely to set them off? I smell red-hair discrimination here.

  But I know at least two worse at it than me. “Aren’t you guys confusing me with Aunt Weeby? She’s the one who says weird things, but she’s back home in Louisville. And if you ask me, I’d have to say Max loves the taste of shoe leather more than I do. He’s always got those big feet tickling his throat, even on screen.”

  “It takes two,” he says, his voice a low growl.

  Miss Mona points to the van. “Go! The both of you. I gotta tell you. If you’d only stop picking at each other, you might just figure out you’re perfectly matched, and like each other too much instead of too little.”

  I gape.

  He stares.

  We both shut up.

  When we get into the van—still speechless—she gives the driver a signal, and we take off at his hang-onto-your-life speed. We go down narrow streets clotted on either side with old cars. Kinda freaky, you know? I have to wonder if we’ll get to that buying office alive.

  We do arrive in one piece. How? Beats me, but not thanks to Speedy Gonzalez in the driver’s seat.

  The buying office is located midway down a block of old stucco buildings. Some are divided into apartments; others have storefronts, topped by more apartments. Our destination is a plain vanilla two-story structure, no apartments on the second floor. The sidewalk here is made up of chunks of stone; elsewhere in the town I’ve seen boardwalks. Inside the building, we enter another dimension. Soft cream walls, a nice wooden desk, a sapphire and garnet Persian rug, a vintage copper light fixture, and two bulging bookshelves make the reception area a treat after the ruggedness of the mine.

  And the rutted roads.

  The slender Myanma gentleman in a dark blue suit shows us into an inner room. Wood paneling covers all these walls from floor to ceiling. A long, library-style table runs down the middle of the room. Eight dark wood chairs, possibly mahogany, are pulled up to it. The three of us take seats, while Hannah does her thing.

  Just as she’s testing the light, the door yawns into our wood-paneled cocoon, and two men walk in.

  “Good afternoon,” the one in a tan shirt and khaki pants says. “My name is Mr. Ne Aung, and I have some nice rubies for you.”

  The very Myanma-looking vendor speaks excellent English with a British accent. His partner, Mr. Win, opens a square, black leather case lined in white satin. It’s a nice case, but nothing much can compare with the rich, glowing, pigeon’s-blood red rubies that nestle in the satin.

  I suck in my breath. “I’ve seen Burma rubies before, but this . . . Wow! Which mine did they come from?”

  Mr. Ne Aung points at two round stones. “These came from the one you visited today.”

  And how did he know which one we visited? I don’t think asking is a good thing. Not right now.

  Instead, I say, “Can I loop them?”

  Mr. Win holds out a 10x jeweler’s loop and a pair of tweezers. I pick up the stone. Mr. Ne Aung turns on a pure-light lamp, and the ruby comes alive. You see, Burma rubies do this neat little trick. They fluoresce, and not just under the

  “black” fluorescent type of light. Rubies from other locales don’t do it, even though they might show off a body color close to that of the Burmese.

  “Nice,” I say. “Very, very nice. Do you have a carat scale I could use?”

  Mr. Ne Aung smiles at Mr. Win. “I told you she would want to verify the weight.” He turns back to me. “Mr. Pak spoke very highly of you. Said you knew the business.”

  Sadness hits me again. “You have heard he died, right?”

  Mr. Ne Aung goes kinda green around the gills. “Dead? How can that be? He was here just two, maybe three weeks ago. He was on his way to see you.”

  “Really? Did he tell you why? What did he say about the trip? And why me? Why was he coming to see me, of all people?”

  My rapid-fire questions seem to surprise him. “Don’t you know why he came to see you?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you if I did. What did he say about his trip?”

  Mr. Ne Aung glances at Mr. Win. The look they exchange makes me uneasy; the vendor’s answer even more. “Only that he would see you after he left here. Didn’t he tell you his reasons when he arrived? Or did he not reach his destination?”

  “He came to the network studios, but someone killed him before I even knew he was there. We never had the chance to get together. I found him dead. In the vault.”

  Mr. Ne Aung and Mr. Win swap looks. “Did you receive what he had for you?”

  “I did. The police found the invitation from your government to come and film the Mogok mining operations. How else would we have received permission to enter the country? Oh! And I got Rio too—the parrot.”

  “Parrot? A bird?”

  I nod.

  He shakes his head. “Then that must be that.”

  “He was dead by the time I found him. Sure that’s that.” “Unless,” Max says, “the gentlemen are referring to something other than the parrot or the invitation.”

  The men trade looks—yet another time. “There’s nothing else,” Mr. Ne Aung says, his eyes cast downward. “What else could there be?”

  Before I have a chance to speak, Max jumps in with another good question, to my surprise. “Aren’t you the one who saw him last? Shouldn’t you be the one to tell us what else there could be?”

  Mr. Ne Aung takes a sharp breath, blinks, then puts on a smile, one that feels just a tad sad. “I’m sorry. I don’t suppose there’s anything more one can say or do now that he’s dead.”

  “What do you mean, there’s nothing more to do?” Miss Mona asks with way too much oomph. I appreciate the effort. “I thought we came all the way ’round the world to buy us some great rubies. We haven’t bought a one, and I need Andie to sell rubies for me.”

  “We can help you, madam,” Mr. Win says.

  He speaks!

  While Miss Mona and Mr. Ne Aung haggle back and forth, I can’t shake a funky feeling. Something in the cobwebby back corners of my mind screams: that vendor knows more than he’s sharing. About Mr. Pak.

  And then some.

  But what?

  I keep my eyes and ears open as I pick out the one-only stones I think we should buy. I nod or shake my head when Mr. Ne Aung talks price; I don’t want Miss Mona to pay more than a decent value, where the vendor can make a living and where the network can make a profit.

  Then we go on to the parcels we will divide to sell the similar stones in volume at a more reasonable price. They’re of lesser quality than the one-onlys, but still better than what one can find anywhere else. The finest Madagascar rubies come close to some of these stones in color and clarity—but no fluorescence.

  All this time, Max says nothing more. I suppose he said enough.

  And he gave me plenty to think about, Lord. What did all that mean? Aside from those men knowing way more than they were willing to say.

  Through the rest of the meeting, my head buzzes with the certainty that Mr. Ne Aung knows more than he’s said.

  I want to find out what it is before we leave Mogok.

  With God’s help.

  Of course, my curiosity and determination can’t hurt.

  I hope.

  1100

  The next day, we return to the mine. Hannah films while I kick up clouds of dry peanut-butter-colored dust with every step I take. It’s so bad that by the time I get to the mouth of the mine, my hair looks more nutty than carroty.

  Yeah, yeah. Nutty fits me better than carroty.
>
  I continue to interview miners as the mine manager interprets for me, and we film the primitive means by which the world’s best rubies are brought out from where God hides them underground.

  When the manager shows me the day’s production, Miss Mona peers over my shoulder. “That’s too bad! There’s almost nothing there. And those bitty bits you do have are too small to cut.” She looks my way. “Aren’t they?”

  I hand her a small piece of rough. “This one might make a decent accent stone in the hands of a good cutter. But it’s no Hollywood A-lister’s rock, that’s for sure.”

  Max holds out a hand. “Could I see it? It doesn’t look anything like a ruby.”

  “Here you go. And that, Max, is why it’s called rough. It hasn’t been cut or polished yet. That cut and polish is what brings out the amazing red of Burmese rubies.”

  He returns the stone to the mine manager, then scratches his chin. “If there’s so little stuff coming out of these mines, why are we here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to go check out other sources of rubies? Or maybe we just look for some other gems period. Sapphires are good.”

  Sapphires are good. Sure thing, buddy. And Cartier just sells watches.

  Before I say anything I shouldn’t—I can bite my tongue every now and then, you know—I offer a quick prayer. I glance down, but when I catch sight of my filthy Nikes, a groan explodes all on its own. I look just like Charlie Brown’s pal Pigpen. Ah . . . the perils of gemology.

  But I digress.

  Back to Max. “True. Sapphires are great, but carat for carat, the best rubies can run many more thousands than even diamonds, alexandrites, or Paraíba tourmalines, never mind sapphires.”

  “I know diamonds and alexandrites, but what’s a para . . . pear-ah—”

  I should be used to him by now, but it still rubs me the wrong way. Time to enlighten the gem-dunce. Again.

  “Paraíba is a state in Brazil where the rarest form of tourmaline, an electric, neon blue gem, was originally found around 1988 or ’89.” He leans closer, and I notice his attentive gaze and encouraging smile. Great! Progress is good. I figure I’d better strike while the striking’s good. “That mine played out just a couple of years after it was found, and now Brazilian Paraíba gems can bring in tens of thousands of dollars per carat.”

  His baby blues goggle. “Tens of thousands? Are you gem geeks crazy?”

  “And proud of it. Actually, there was a find in Nigeria in 2001, and another new find of the copper-bearing cuprian elbaite in Africa sometime in 2005. It looks as though the GIA has determined these stones can be called Paraíba even though they don’t come from Brazil. Their prices are a little more reasonable.”

  He holds out a hand, palm out. “Stop. Please. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d just cussed me out. All those strange words make my head spin.”

  My smile is just a teensy weensy bit smug. “I said you were in over your head, didn’t I? Gemology’s not for the faint of heart.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Neither is the perfect swing or breaking through tackles and blocks on the way to the end zone.”

  Miss Mona lays a hand on his forearm. “You’re a sports fan? I didn’t realize that. Or did you tell me and my sieve of a brain let it go down the drain?”

  I snort. “He sure is, Miss Mona. He played for the Buckies . . . the Buck-ohs . . . er . . . the Buckaroos?”

  He glares. “The Buckeyes, Andie.” He turns to Miss Mona. “My BS in meteorology is from Ohio State. I went on a football scholarship and played all four years.”

  Miss Mona smiles. “I remember listening to my two brothers argue for hours over the merits of the Buckeyes versus the Wolverines.”

  That’s enough to send Max the Magnificent into a mega-psyched defense of his . . . what’d he call them? Oh yeah.

  Buckeyes.

  Just what we need. Not.

  Sports talk won’t get us where we want to go, so by the time they’ve enumerated a slew of pros and cons for each team, I say, “How about we wrap it up here, guys, and head for the Panchan-htar-pwe market? I’m not so sure they don’t have any stones of value there. Who knows what we might find if we check out enough vendors?”

  “Oooh, Andie!” Miss Mona says, “I’ve always loved treasure hunts. And I did want to visit the market from the start, remember?”

  We wave good-bye to our newly minted miner friends and pile into the van. I have no clue what to expect at the market, but excitement fizzes up inside me. I have to agree with Miss Mona. There’s something about treasure hunts that really grabs you. It’s the what-if factor.

  We reach the market, and I fall head over heels with the whole thing. Pink and blue umbrellas mushroom over the blocks-long open-air bazaar. Burmese folks bustle in and out of the aisles, hustle their way between the tables, and finally vanish in the field of colorful umbrellas. An electric energy radiates from all that activity and draws me in. And, as if the exotic aura weren’t enough, there’s gemstones a-waitin’ on them thar tables!

  “Let’s go,” I urge once the driver finds a parking spot on the packed-earth area just in front of the umbrellas. “I can’t wait to see what we’ll find today.”

  I scramble out, fighting my natural urge to run ahead.

  I don’t think the demure Burmese can handle a crazed American rushing their prized market. And I have a sneaking suspicion I’m actually allergic to Burmese jails. I itch at the thought.

  Our translator follows me into the maze of vendors, and I’m off to the races. The first table I stop at has little to look at. The ruby rough is tiny, cloudy, and nothing I want to mess with.

  The next table I visit, though, is a whole other story. While this vendor has no rubies, he does have other goodies. Our translator gestures for me to sit, and moments later, Miss Mona does the same. The gem-dunce follows. Lucky me.

  The vendor pulls out a silver bowl and a folded-paper rectangle. My heart starts to pump. As he draws out the moment, unfurling each flap with painful deliberation, I grow giddy. Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.

  I can’t stand the overdone suspense. Finally, the slip of paper blossoms out flat. In the very center multiple stones twinkle and wink at me. I bend closer. They glow stormy-ocean blue. “Ah . . .”

  “Nice?” the vendor says.

  I rein in my stampeding glee. “I’d like to loop them.”

  When he nods, I reach into my pocket, pop open my 10x magnifier, and look at the stunning, clean stones. The man’s carat scale reveals decent weight. These babies should set up great. “Do you have more?”

  “More?” The vendor leans over, digs around in a beat-up old suitcase, and after a few minutes bounces back, a larger folded packet in hand. “More.”

  You know I buy all those sapphires.

  Miss Mona slips the two parcels into her handbag. “Oh, Andie. I’m so excited! Our viewers are gonna eat these beautiful pieces up with a spoon.”

  “That’s what I thought when I laid eyes on the first lot.”

  “I knew the color was good,” Max said.

  “You’re learning.” I hope.

  “Everyone knows sapphires. It’s all that stuff about other unknown stones that can trip a guy up.”

  “A guy who doesn’t know his gemstones . . .”

  “When you know all about football and golf . . .”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “D’you see me turning blue?”

  To keep from saying anything more, I find another table— not a hardship, since I figure there’s about a couple million of them under the umbrellas. Just a tiny exaggeration, but that’s how crowded the pink and blue mushroom world feels. I wave at our translator. “Could you please ask this gentleman to show us what he has?”

  He nods, singsongs something at the vendor, and after a slew of smiles and more nods, this guy rummages through a white canvas bag slung over the back of his chair. I sit down across from him. Miss Mona takes the chair next to mine. Max the Magnificent stands.

>   “Spinel,” the man says.

  I nod. Most people think of spinel as the fake, man-made stuff they put in most class rings, but real-deal spinel is a thing of beauty. Especially the Burmese material. I lean forward and hold my breath.

  This man is more progressive with his packaging. He keeps his stones in mini-ziplock baggies. Another silver bowl comes out of the canvas sack, and the gems are poured into its center.

  I sigh. “Beautiful . . .”

  He has purple, blue, pink, and the big mama of spinel: red.

  Max leans forward. “That’s not ruby?”

  “Isn’t it amazing?” I say. “But it’s spinel, not ruby. And you’re far from the only guy to mistake fine spinel for ruby. It actually tends to be cleaner, more transparent, and the color? There’s a whole world of rubies that dream of being spinels when they grow up.”

  “No kidding.”

  But enough with the chitchat. Out comes my loop. I wave it at my armed nanny. “Does he mind?”

  The men sing out Burmese. When both nod, I take up my trusty tweezers and loop away.

  It doesn’t get much better than this. To make sure I’m not dreaming, I set down the loop, slip my empty hand under the table, and pinch my thigh. “Ow!”

  “Did you just pinch yourself again?” Max asks.

  “Yeah. I don’t want this to be some dream. Doesn’t it freak you out even a little that you’re here, all the way around the world, in a country few people have visited in forty or more years, and looking at some of the most spectacular gemstone material ever?”

  “The travel’s cool.”

  “But not the stones?”

  The devastating smile shows up again. Aaack! Even when he makes me crazy, his smile melts my bones.

  He crosses his arms. “What can I say? They’re okay.”

  Rather than try to answer, I shake my head and turn back to my gems, soon to be Miss Mona’s and the S.T.U.D.’s gems.

  We make our way around, up, and then finally down all the vendors’ tables. I collect perfectly green peridot; all colors of tourmaline—except Paraíba; amethyst so purple it makes me want to cry; green—you hear that? Green! — zircon; squeaky clean aquamarine; velvety navy-blue kyanite; super-rare green kornerupine; and not just the more common colorless danburite but also sunny yellow and fancy pink.